


Rejoice greatly, O daughter!

by landsmanwashere (pancake_potch)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Throne politics, Nightmares, a hot take on s8, burdens, old bonds and new, post 803, post war of the long night, we only fuck with show canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 11:31:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18716188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancake_potch/pseuds/landsmanwashere
Summary: The war against the dead is over and done. Those left behind find themselves at odds, scrambling to find something to hold on to.





	1. I took a little journey to the unknown

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Zechariah 9:9

“Slowly but surely, Winterfell will be whole again.”

Sansa takes a breath and rests her hands on the railing overlooking the courtyard. “It is. I’m glad to see it so.”

“As am I.” Tyrion looks up at Sansa. “Speaking of whole, I am wholly sound of body and mind. I do believe I need to thank your sister for that.”

“We all should. Your queen included.” She says, looking at him sideways.

“And she will. Where is she, anyway? Your sister?”

Smiling, she says, “Apparently playing a drinking game with your brother and Podrick in the small hall.”

“And you didn’t join them?” Tyrion japes. “Perhaps I should. I can’t be of any assistance here,” he waves at the builders around them, “but I can surely assist in assessing Winterfell’s wine stock.”

Sansa motions for Tyrion to follow her, and the wind through the stone corridors until the peer into the small hall.

Inside, at the only table not completely ruined sits Arya and Jaime, with a clearly passed out Podrick.

Jaime is speaking lowly to Arya, whatever it is he’s saying must be serious, because Arya is intently listening with wide eyes. Her face is different than from what Sansa expects-her little sister looks tired or vulnerable-and it worries her. It’s far, far different than the mask she’s worn since her arrival home.

Sansa is about to step in when there’s a tug on her fingers. She looks down at Tyrion, who’s looking at the scene in front of them.

Jaime lays his golden hand gently on Arya’s knee as he continues to speak, then cups the side of her face with his good hand. Sansa is expecting Arya to push him away, to snarl or fight him-but she doesn’t. Instead, she softens…her face, her posture.

Sansa wants to stay to see what else will happen, but Tyrion leads her away, and she lets him.

Once around a corner, Tyrion says, “War makes for strange bonds.”

“Strange bonds? Like us?”

Tyrion scoffs good-naturedly. “Our bond goes beyond this war, my lady. I do recall us being bonded in matrimony before the Seven.”

“That seems like ages ago,” Sansa says wistfully.

They walk as Sansa takes mental notes of things needed repairing or replacing, and soon they find themselves in Winterfell’s library.

It’s a mess, though it’s largely intact. Many of the manuscripts and books are salvageable, and for that Tyrion is relieved.

She takes a seat at the window and Tyrion joins her. They look out the dusty panes as he tells her of the library at Casterly Rock, and how it was always his favorite place. He turns his attention to the room and is suddenly so very grateful.

“If we lost,” Tyrion starts lowly, “all of this would be gone. The books…the parchments…lost forever. Those thoughts and stories and memories-just _poof_ -as if we never existed.”

Sansa takes his hand. “But we didn’t lose. We’re here. We survived, you and I.”

Her skin is so soft, as if she herself has been untouched by the battle around them. Soft and beautiful and sweet smelling, as she always has been. He hesitantly places his own hand on hers.

“We did, didn’t we. And, I’m glad we were together. If it were the end, I couldn’t think of a better way to go than by your side.” He says honestly.

 --

“Perhaps he’s composing songs of our great deeds in his sleep.” Jaime says. “He’s quite the singer.”

Arya raises her eyebrows and looks at Podrick. “Podrick the Bard?”

“Mm,” Jaime nods as he drinks. “Rather good too. Say, if you’re looking for companionship, this one here is a good lad. He apparently has a _magic cock_ , as Ser Bronn liked to remind us often enough.”

“Companionship? Is that what you advise-one kingslayer to another?”

Jaime quietly puts his goblet down and taps his fingers. “You wear the title better than I.”

Picking up the pitcher, Arya fills her goblet and his. She takes a drink, then another before she looks at him.

“You saved all of King’s Landing-I know what you did.”

“And you,” he says looking directly into her eyes, “saved an entire kingdom.”

Arya shifts in her seat, uncomfortable. She toys a bit with the dice and looks at sleeping Podrick.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she says. “Everybody’s thanking me-and I suppose I ought to feel…pride or joy. Instead I feel…” Arya trails off and takes a drink.

“Hollow?” Jaime provides. “Empty? Completely unfeeling on the matter entirely?”

Arya’s eyes dart to his. She must be in her cups if she’s talking to Jaime Lannister about this-especially when she hadn’t wanted to speak about it at all. Ever. But, there’s something about his demeanor- his eyes portray a quiet understanding despite his blustering and bravado.

Jaime gives her a knowing look and sighs deeply. “Indifference. Except when it comes to the nightmares.”

Arya swallows. “How do you…make it stop?”

His heart feels for this girl. The little girl that saved them all.

“Lady Arya,” he starts, ensuring he has her attention, “What you’ve done…the entire seven kingdoms owe their lives to you. They’re alive because of you. _I’m_ alive because of you. Podrick,” he glances at the boy and furrows his brows, “is alive and rather drunk because of you. And that is an enormous burden to shoulder. The sheer magnitude of your actions ensures that you will be remembered for all of time.”

She’s listening and for the first time, she feels something kindling inside her chest.

“And because of that,” he continues, and neither noticed he’s placed his gold hand on her knee, “the dreams become just as hard. It’s always one where you’re too slow, too late-you watch the people you love die over and over again, when they’re very much alive. I can’t tell you how to make them stop. Maybe one day they will, or maybe they never will.”

His free hand finds its way to her face, because he knows. He fucking knows how she feels. “The only thing you can do is remind yourself in the morning that it’s over-it’s _done_ , and life will go on.”

\--  
The heat rises in her cheeks, and a slight smile graces her face as they lock eyes. In a fit of bravery, Sansa leans down and gives him a delicate kiss on the lips.

Tyrion stares at her in complete shock, completely thrown by her actions-but it takes only a moment before he reaches for her and kisses her soundly.

Tyrion is gentle but firm, a kiss not of lust but of longing, and Sansa lets herself get swept away.

The sound of footsteps pull them apart and Sansa grins and ducks her head, and for a moment, it reminds him of the naïve, pretty girl he wed in King’s Landing. They both stand and see Varys and Missandei approaching.

“Lady Stark,” Vary’s bows slightly. “Lord Tyrion, the queen requires your attention before the evening meal.”

Sansa’s gaze slides down to Tyrion, her face now that of _Lady Stark_.

Tyrion clears his throat. “Of course.” Looking up at Sansa Tyrion says, “Shall I see you at dinner?”

She nods, and watches them depart with a weary heart.

 --

They walk together to the Great Hall for dinner, and he goes to take his leave of her, assuming she was going to sit at the high table but she stays resolutely at his elbow. He finds he doesn’t mind-she’s an intriguing thing, and rather stunning to boot.

Side by side they sit, and Arya shrinks a little behind his shoulder. There are too many people and it’s too loud. She wants to go unnoticed, to just eat in peace, but the looks everyone gives her tells her that won’t happen.

Jaime looks down at her. “And what do we think is in the stew today?”

Arya sniffs and drags her spoon through. “Venison?” She takes a bite. “Horse,” she frowns.

Jaime lifts an eyebrow at her. “I suppose we ought to be thankful. It’s warm and it’s…food, technically.”

She gives him a weak smile. “I’ve eaten worse.”

“As have I.”

There’s movement on the other side of Arya and she looks up to find The Hound.

“Lannister,” Clegane grits out.

“Clegane.” Jaime answers.

Clegane scoffs. “Evening, _little lady_.” He says to Arya, and she just rolls her eyes.

Arya is about to take a bite when Clegane grabs her by the chin, forcing him to look at her. Jaime freezes, ready to yank her away if need be-but then realizes she doesn’t need him to defend her.

“Didja get that seen to, girl?” Clegane says of the wound on her head.

She elbows his arm away. “It’s fine.”

“Like hell. You need to take yourself to the maester and have him look.”

Arya rips off a piece of bread and dips it in her stew. Taking a bite she looks at Clegane. “He’s busy with real injuries, stupid. And I’m _fine_. You didn’t listen to me when we were near the Gates of the Moon, why should I listen to you now?”

“Is that what you want? Want me to _burn_ the wound for you? It might burn some sense into that thick head of yours.”

“Go on, then. We’ll be twins, you and I.”

“You cheeky little shit.” He says before turning to his bowl.

“Could I possibly ask how you and The Hound were at the Gates of the Moon?” Jaime asks her quietly.

She slows the chewing of her food and shakes her head. “It’s a long story.”

“Lady Arya.”

The two look up to find Brienne standing in front of them. “I would just like to share my everlasting grat-“

“Ser Brienne,” Jaime interrupts smiling as adjusts himself and leans a little in front of Arya. “I say, do you happen to know where your squire is?”

Brienne narrows her eyes. “Podrick? Why no-“

“I have it on very good authority that he is quite drunk. I was unable to revive him, but perhaps a stern finger wagging from you will rouse him enough to join us to sup.”

Brienne gets an irritated look as she stalks out, in search of her squire.

“I can’t believe you tattled on him. Just like Sansa always tattled to Septa.” She eyes him. “Thank you,” she adds quietly.

Two more people come to thank Arya, some minor lords of some minor houses Jaime doesn’t know. Arya no longer shrinks back, but her face is now a blank shroud as she nods at them.

She fiddles with her food a little more before muttering something about going to bed.

“Allow me to escort you to your chambers, Lady Arya.” Jaime says in his most chivalrous tone, holding his elbow out to her.

She flinches and raises an eyebrow. “That’s truly unnecessary.”

“I know. However, if you’re with me, chances are no one will speak to you. I’m very aware of how Northerners feels about Lannisters-they make it rather obvious.”

Arya pushes herself out of her seat and stands. Her feet itch to leave, but something keeps them firmly in place until Jaime gets up. She refuses to think on why that is.

 --

Daenerys enters with Tyrion, and everyone in the hall stands. Sansa looks unseeing in front of her and waits for the Dragon Queen to take a place at the table. Her nostrils flare, angry at her continued presence in Winterfell.

But, Sansa is surprised to find Tyrion taking a seat next to her, as opposed to his normal spot at the queen’s side.

A bowl is placed in front of him, and he eyes it warily. “The stores of wine in the castle are safe, however, we really need to focus on the food.”

She’s about to answer when Jon leans over to speak to her. Tyrion gulps down some ale and he takes in the scene around him. He cocks his head as he spots his brother sitting next to Lady Arya. They seem comfortable around each other, and he wonders what it is they speak about.

Lady Brienne then comes to stand in front of the pair and says something as Jaime spreads his elbows on the table, almost effectively hiding Arya.

“I see your brother and my sister are getting along,” Sansa says.

“Curious thing. For someone who doesn’t need protecting, he’s awfully protective of her.”

Sansa gives him an inquisitive look, wanting him to explain further, but he doesn’t. Instead he speaks about stonemasons and walls and coinage until the meal is over.

Tyrion walks Sansa to her door afterward. “My lady, if it isn’t too inappropriate, may we continue this in your chambers?”

“Lord Tyrion, that’s rather forward of you-but I’ll make an exception if you keep your _demon monkey hands_ to yourself,” she smiles.

He chuckles. “Didn’t I tell you once that I have certain standards to maintain? Could we _at least_ let the inhabitants of the castle think that I’m still the pervert I once was?”

She opens her door. Her rooms are virtually untouched-fire roaring in the fireplace, and Tyrion immediately relaxes. She pours wine and invites him to sit in front of the fire.

They banter back and forth, and Sansa misses having an easy relationship with someone. Someone respectful and kind, witty and clever. Handsome too, if she’s being honest.

“Sansa…” Tyrion starts hesitantly, “you said it would never work between us because my loyalties would be divided.” He looks up at her, “and what if they weren’t? What if…instead I joined the Northern cause? Or, at least joined you up here?”

Sansa stands up quickly. “What are you saying exactly? That you’d give up your position as Hand?”

“And perhaps rejoin our houses.” He says seriously.

“She’d never let you, Tyrion. Do you really think she’d just…release you? Especially to be here…with me?” Her eyes are pleading, as she stares at him, fingers fidgeting in front of her.

Tyrion gets up and takes her hand into his. “Daenerys isn’t the tyrant you think she is.”


	2. Holy Darkness

_It’s so very dark. She fights and she fights and she fights and she’s blinded by dragon fire and frozen with ice and Bran’s dead and she’s too late-the dagger drops to the hardened ground and not her hand-_

 

She bolts upright, tears in her eyes, sweat stinging her wounds. Her gasping breaths bite through the still air of her room and she runs a rough hand over her face-hard enough to awake a sharp pain from the dull throb of her bruises and the newly stitched together skin.

 

_It’s over, it’s over, it’s over._

It’s over, it’s done, Arya thinks. Life goes on. Dreams can’t hurt you.

 

She doesn’t know how long she lies there before sitting up and pulling on her boots.

 

Walking through the castle and the inner yard, her eyes are peeled for who she’s looking for. There are tents now, set up in between the outer and inner walls, and an odd fire here and there catches her gaze. It isn’t until she’s walked nearly the length of the eastern side that she finds him.

 

Jaime sits on the ground, watching the fire outside a worn tent, one flap lapping in the breeze.

 

He spies her in the shadows, and follows her movements as she sits near him. He wants to ask what it is that brings her here, but he has an idea. He stops a small smile that threatens to break out. Could be he finds her attention flattering, but that’s not entirely true. He’s grown fond of her in the short hours he’s spent in her company, this vicious, pretty thing.

 

“What’s yours?” Arya’s voice cracks, and she’s staring into the fire, unable to look at him.

 

She hears a low exhale and feels him looking at her. “I did what Aerys commanded.” He pauses. “I’m standing in the Throne Room, my father’s head clutched in my fist…and I…I look down to see his blood dripping on my boots…” He clears his throat and doesn’t say anything else.

 

They sit together in front of the dying fire not speaking.

 

Dawn is on the horizon, and Arya stiffly stands up, rubbing her eyes. Jaime wants to tell her she can stay, sit for as long as she likes, but he can’t seem to justify that.

 

She turns away, taking only a step before she turns back and meets his eyes. Those big, grey Stark eyes blink and he can feel what she wants from him without saying anything. He braces himself on his good hand and pushes himself up and follows her back to the castle.

 

 

 

She stands at her open chamber door, looking at her feet. Jaime is about to say something about the impropriety of being in a lady’s chambers but he bites his tongue.

 

“Do you…do you want me to sit with you?” Jaime offers because he knows of dreams-though he doesn’t know the contents of hers, he can assume. Arya says nothing as she opens the door further.

 

He prods the near dead fire and relaxes in a stuffed armchair and she curls up on top of her bed, boots still on.

 

“I’m too late,” Arya says. “Bran’s dead and everyone else is too. The dagger…I drop it.” It’s only now-afterward-that she reflects on the potential outcomes. She had no time to give in to fear at that moment, but now she has nothing but time and little to occupy herself.

 

For the first time in a long time she wants the comfort of another person-not like when she sought out Gendry-but she just wants Jaime next to her. Feel his heat and hear him breathe because it may remind her that she’s alive too.

 

That life will go on.

 

They stare at each other, and Arya thinks how handsome he is. As quickly as the thought comes to her she chastises herself.

 

But he’s the last thing she sees before her eyes flutter shut.

 

Jaime watches the shallow breaths of this slip of a woman. He can’t seem to get over how very _small_ she is. How easy it would be, he thinks, to throw her over his shoulder and run away with her. Maybe to Lorath or Naath or Yi Ti…somewhere far, far away where she wouldn’t be reminded of the things she’s done and in the process, he could forget too.


	3. Got a hold on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck me. Do you know what happens when you drink half a bottle of bourbon? If you're me, you impulsively buy a new couch AND post 1/4 of a chapter.
> 
> So, here's what should have been the rest of chapter 2, but we'll go ahead and call it 3.

Sansa’s hand slips out of his as her eyes harden. “Are you to stand here, look me in the eye and tell me that your queen will just release you from her service? Her most _trusted advisor_?”

 

She’s not wrong, and although he has faith in the queen, she won’t take this lightly. “She will, once I tell her the reason.”

 

Tyrion is waiting for her to react to that, but she only takes a deep breath, so he continues. “After you had disappeared from King’s Landing, I always had you in the back of my mind…and in my heart to some degree. Especially after Shae-“

 

“Shae?” Sansa questions. “My handmaiden?”

 

He glances at her before turning his attention to the fire. “She was…” For someone who prided themselves in the gift of speech, he’s having a terrible time with this. “My lady, I truly did think that with a little effort and some time, you and I could be somewhat happy together-but until then, she did warm my bed. Although it is of little matter now, she betrayed me in the end.”

 

Sansa takes this with unruffled grace. She finds the information interesting at best, and it occurs to her what a _Little Bird_ she was indeed. Her lord husband was sleeping with her handmaiden, and she was oblivious.

 

“Is that why she was so terrible at her job?”

 

Tyrion scoffs and gives her a small smile. “What I’m trying to say is that if I tell Daenerys that I’d like to rekindle our relationship, she would be understanding. Her heart is not so cold that she would deny me a chance at,” he clears his throat, “love or happiness. That is if you agree-I’m being rather presumptuous since you haven’t shared your thoughts.”

 

“Tyrion,” she says softly. “I’m sorry I never appreciated you as much as you deserved. And I find the idea of you and I…I find it appealing, but I’ll not delude myself into thinking Daenerys will just willingly let you go without claiming you a traitor.”

 

His eyebrows lift. “Traitor? That’s rather extreme, don’t you think?”

 

“What I find extreme is roasting the Lord of Horn Hill and his heir alive in their armor for _not bending the knee_ ,” Sansa bites out. “Someone who is capable of that surely won’t allow you to join me and the North-even in the name of love.” Her eyes narrow. “Unless that’s why you’ve made this proposal-to ensure the North will never regain its independence.”

 

“You know that’s not why.” He says defensively. “Am I wrong to think there’s a chance for us? A real chance, one that you’d enter willingly this time?”

 

“You’re not wrong about that, but you are wrong about your queen.”

 

That night Tyrion thinks on Sansa’s words. He thinks about loyalty and he thinks about love and when he finally falls asleep it’s with a troubled mind and a heavy heart.

 

\--

 

He blinks his eyes open. For a moment he forgets where he is. Stiffly, he turns and startles when he finds Arya Stark staring at him. He had joined her in the bed when some particular nasty thing wove itself into her head and he was genuinely frightened that she’d fling herself onto the stone floor.

 

“Apologies, my lady.” He says though he makes no move to get up. It a half-hearted apology, made only because manners dictate that he does so.   Arya shrugs. “You were thrashing about and I was afraid you’d launch yourself clear off. And, it’s been an age since I’ve slept in a proper bed.”

 

 Arya examines him, the green eyes, the gruff beard and she wants to kiss him. It’s a strange thought, but she thinks of how it would compare to Gendry. Jaime’s older and probably a better kisser too. Probably better at everything.

 

Jaime looks over her shoulder at the dull windowpane. “It looks as though we’ve slept through the mid-day meal. Can’t say I mind-I haven’t slept so well in quite awhile.”

 

Arya silently agrees and takes a deep breath. “Thanks.”

“Thank _you_. Feel free to invite me to your bed any time you like.”

 

To that she lifts an eyebrow. “That sounds rather tawdry.”

 

“Tawdry is the least of it. I can think of a hundred words that could be hurled at my persons if anyone finds out I’ve been here.” He smiles back at her, and she smells like smoke and leather and pine and it makes his heart race.

 

Arya frowns. “I really don’t give a shit.”

 

“Excellent. Neither do I.” He groans and tries to stir himself enough to stand when a hand grasps his tunic sleeve. He glances at Arya, confused.

 

Her mouth opens, words on the tip of her tongue. “Will you stay with me?” She feels foolish and stupid for asking-but she’s grown attached to him. He knows what she’s going through, although that isn’t all of it. He’s flippant and rude and they’ve both done bad things in the name of family and neither is apologetic about it.

 

Because she doesn’t want to be alone in her head, and she doesn’t want anyone else’s company.

 

“Only because nobody here cares for you, so I figured you’ll be an excellent shield from everyone.”

 

Jaime chuckles. “It’s as if everyone’s forgotten that I fought side-by-side with them. And yes, I will be your sworn shield- I find your company preferable to most others here.”

There’s a knock on her door and Jaime flies off the bed, though Arya isn’t concerned in the least. She opens the door just enough to poke her head out. A pageboy with bandage around his head stands stiffly.

 

“I was told to summon you for a council meeting, my lady.”

 

She nods and follows, shutting the door behind her, leaving a very confused Jaime Lannister behind in her rooms.

 

\--

 

The shock from around the table is clear.

 

“Your Grace,” Lord Royce starts hesitantly, “my soldiers haven’t been home for quite some time. They long for their wives, their children-“

 

“And they will return home-once King’s Landing is taken.” Daenerys says.

 

“It’s too soon,” Sansa says disbelieving. “They’re still recovering. They’ve just fought an army of the _dead_ , and you’d like them to march off thousands of miles away from home?”

 

The Queen’s eyes shift coolly from Lord Royce to Sansa, and Tyrion watches intently. He didn’t fail to notice her lack of manners when addressing Daenerys, but he too is having a hard time reconciling the decision to march straightaway.

 

“What would you have me do, Lady Stark? Allow Cersei to continue sitting on a throne she has no right to?”

 

Arya watches Sansa’s jaw clench. Her sister is right, and Jon says nothing, standing placidly at the queen’s side.

 

“I do believe what Lady Stark means is that she’ll be more than willing to supply troops and supplies if we wait.“ Tyrion tries not to wince.

 

“I fully understand, Lord Tyrion. And I mean to leave immediately, _with_ the Northern troops.”

 

Tyrion knows the tone and the cadence of Daenerys’ response, and knows there is no use to argue. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, lamenting her impatience. He opens them to the sound of the rustle of dress and sees Daenerys turn to leave. He finds those sharp blue Tully eyes watching him as he takes his leave too.

 

Sansa is fuming, and the only thing keeping her in a reasonable state of mind is knowing Tyrion at least favors her idea. Yet she rounds on Jon as everybody else slowly shuffles out.

 

“Do you have nothing to say on the matter?”

 

“Sansa, she’s the rightful queen. As such, we are obligated to do as she commands.” Jon looks tired and plagued by something, the tension ebbs from him in waves and Arya studies his weary face.

 

“What’s wrong?” Arya asks, wondering if he’ll tell her anything at all. He’s not the same Jon she remembers, but then none of them are the same.

 

Jon glances at the closed door and sighs. “What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room.”

 

Arya and Sansa exchange looks. “Go on, then.” Arya says.

 

Jon doesn’t look at either of them, instead focusing on the floor. “Eddard Stark isn’t my father-my father was Rhaegar Targaryen and my mother is Lyanna Stark. I’m not your brother after all.”

 

“ _What_?” Sansa exclaims. Then, it immediately occurs to her, not the fact that they’ve all been lied to their whole lives, but the most obvious thing of all. “You’re the rightful heir to the throne, Jon.”

 

Arya just blinks at the news. “So Daenerys is your aunt? You’ve been bedding your _aunt_?”

 

Jon just looks at her, ashamed.

 

“You’re still family- _our_ family. You’re a Northerner regardless of who your father is,” Arya says. “And that means you’re to protect the North, not send the handful of able bodied men left to fight for _your_ queen.”

 

“Damn it all, Arya.” Jon says, but neither Arya nor Sansa know what he means by this.

 

\--

 

“This should have pictures.” Arya finds Jaime sprawled in the armchair, book in hand. “ _Maester Bellsworth’s Guide to Edible Plants of the North,’”_ he reads from the spine, “shouldn’t it have pictures? How is one supposed to identify the edible plants of the North? By description alone? That seems like quite the gamble.”

 

He tosses the book on her bed and looks to her. “Interesting war council?”

 

“What do you think of the Dragon Queen?” She asks seriously as she stands in front of him.

 

His spine goes rigid, and he tries to read her face. “Honestly? The thought of another Targaryen monarchy doesn’t sit well with me-though I doubt anyone would take my opinion on it. Why?”

 

Arya takes a deep breath. “She wants to gather the forces here and march for King’s Landing within the fortnight.”

 

Jaime’s jaw drops. “ _Now_? It hasn’t been a moon’s turn since the battle, and she wants-that’s _madness_.” He gets up and stares out the window at the courtyard below. “And who is to protect Winterfell should my sister decide to attack while they’re on the road south? The children? The infirm?”

 

The weak light through the window throws shadows on Jaime that seem to age him by years. She joins him at the window.

“Sansa agrees. Daenerys isn’t listening to anyone, not even Lord Tyrion.” Jaime gives her a concerned look at his brother’s name.

 

“A Targaryen who won’t listen to wise council. Forgive me if I’m not surprised in the least.”

 

“I dislike politics,” Arya sighs.

 

Jaime scoffs. “Seven hells. Never join the Kingsguard. The endless hours of sniveling and politicking almost drove me to fall upon my sword on numerous occasions.”

 

He looks down at her. “Say. Aren’t you hungry? I’m fucking starving and all this talk of Targaryens and thrones is driving me to find the nearest wine skin within reach.”

 

She suggests they go to the kitchens and he readily agrees.

 

They pilfer a few withered apples, a skin of wine, a loaf of stale bread wrapped in cloth, a wedge of cheese of questionable edibility and return to her room.

 

They sit in front of the fire and eat and they both agree that neither of them have had cheese in such along time, they’ll take their chances.

 

“What a shit way to go,” Arya says around a bite of apple. “I can kill the undead, but I’ll die from bad cheese.”

 

“I survived getting my hand getting chopped off, yet to spend my last few moments shitting myself before death sounds poetic, I think.”

 

Arya laughs and it’s been so long, she’s almost forgotten how.

 

They talk and Arya slowly begins to feel some of the darkness leave her-the Night King is no longer all she thinks of, nor the piles of bodies scattered all over her home, nor her worry about Jon. She never realized just how much she was carrying around within her until pieces of it begin to break off and scatter to the wind.

 

“Do you want to take a walk?” She asks him. “It’s a nice day.”

 

Jaime flinches. “ _Nice_? Lady Arya, it’s fucking freezing out there.”

 

“No it’s not, and stop calling me lady.”

“How should I refer to you? Kingslayer? People will get us confused-until I say the _pretty one_. And even then they’ll still wonder which one of us it is.”

 

Arya looks at him, baffled, until she throws her head back and laughs. “Let’s just go.”

 

She leads him through and they glance around at the rebuilding. People stop and turn to stare at her, and she’s sure at Jaime too. But she tries to ignore it and continues with her head held high.

 

“Is there a reason that blacksmith is staring at you-I mean more so than everyone else?”

 

Arya looks up to Jaime and follows his gaze to find Gendry standing limply, hammer in his hands.

 

“I…we…traveled together. Escaped King’s Landing after my father.”

 

Jaime takes her in, and there’s more to it than what she’s sharing, but he’ll not press her in the matter.

 

She leads them to the Godswood, and Jaime hesitates, but still he quietly follows behind her. There are still the remnants of battle, and though the new snows have managed to cover much of it, it’s still obvious. He’s angry at the carnage in such a holy place.

 

Arya stops and Jaime’s jaw clenches.

 

“Was it here?” He asks, afraid to raise his voice above a whisper.

 

She nods.

 

He sighs and stands at her side. Jaime Lannister is no coward, though he is many other terrible things-this he will always be able to admit to-yet in this matter, he wants to lay the truth, open and raw, at her feet and accept her judgment. Not because he’s looking for absolution or to be praised for honesty, but because Arya should know from his own mouth.

 

“I spoke to your brother here when I first arrived.” Jaime says solemnly. “I asked him why he didn’t say anything about how I…I pushed him out of that tower window.” His eyes sting and he waits for the fall out-for a dagger at his throat or her small sword in his belly.

 

Arya doesn’t lift her head. “I know. Bran already told me.”

 

“You _know_?”

“I do. I was going to kill you when you first arrived, especially after I had seen you with the Freys. But, he told me that it _had_ to happen that way-and that you weren’t the same person anymore.” She looks at him now and he looks so mystified at her reaction.  

 

“Wait-the Freys? Where were you? I don’t recall seeing you there.”

 

She shrugs. “Does it matter? I saw you.”

 

“Fuck the Freys,” Jaime spits. “The whole worthless, imbecilic backwoods family.”

 

Arya just stares and Jaime now notices the extent of her injuries in the daylight. Half of her face is bruised and battered and he finds her beautiful and he wonders what he looks like to her.

 

“My brother has forgiven you. I suppose I have too.”

 

The breath leaves his lungs and he’s momentarily too shocked to say anything. He’s unsure how to take the gift she’s given him and he has to stop himself from wrapping his arms around her or…

 

“Thank you,” he manages to say.

 

 

They sit together again for dinner and Arya is a little more at ease. There are less people today, mostly what remains of the Winterfell staff and the noble guests. She hears Lord Royce telling a tale about some unruly falcons to Lady Karstark as she laughs.

 

Arya glances up at Jaime when he nudges her.

 

“Your sister and my brother have gotten rather cozy.” He says slyly.

 

Her eyes move to the high table, and the two of them have their heads together in quiet conversation.

 

“They were married. And she always said he was the smartest out of all of you.”

 

Jaime looks as though he was going to protest before he concedes. “She’s right.”

 

A few more people filter in and Jaime watches the blacksmith take a seat a bit further down the table-eyeing Arya the whole time. Jaime narrows his eyes and wonders what exactly the history is between them. And then he wonders why he’s so concerned about the lives of highborn girls…though he knows what it is about _this_ highborn girl that interests him.

“Stop staring at Gendry,” Arya says as she takes a quaff of ale.

 

“ _He’s_ the one staring-at _you_. Care to tell me what that’s all about?”

 

“No, I don’t. I suggest you drop the matter.” Arya doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to think about it, because now that they had engaged in relations, he was constantly in her peripherals no matter where she was in the castle.

 

Jaime shifts a little closer to Arya, which she doesn’t fail to notice, and she rolls her eyes.

 

“So it’s true love then.” He says with faux seriousness.

 

Arya wrinkles her nose and glares at him. “Will you shut up?”

 

“Shall we be expecting a betrothal announcement soon? May I be invited to the nuptials? I do have a soft spot for brocade and vows-“

 

She punches him in the shoulder and he drops his spoon on the table and chuckles, rubbing the spot with his golden hand where she hit him.

 

“I killed the Night King, you know,” she says to him, biting her lip to hide the smile creeping up on her face.

\--

“Will you speak with me in my chambers after this?” Sansa asks Tyrion lowly.

 

Tyrion looks at her, her face soft and pretty. “Why of course, my lady.”

 

A faint smile graces her face and her eyes shine. “I think I may have a resolution…if you still feel that Winterfell could be your home.”

 

\--

 

“He’s _who_ now?”

 

“We both know who will make a better ruler-“

 

“This is treasonous, Sansa-“

 

“They elected him Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch at five and ten, Tyrion. The people have crowned him King in the North already.” She whirls on him, eyes pleading. “You could be here, with me. With no worry at all.”

 

Tyrion finds he can’t say anything.


	4. Follow me to the endless night

He tells her he’ll take his leave of her when they arrive at her door and gives her an exaggerated bow with a long, drawn out ‘ _my lady_.’

 

“What? _Why_?”

 

“Why?” He asks with a puzzled look. “Because we’re at your rooms.”

 

“I know but-could you…”

 

The words hang in the air, and he thinks to ask _why him_ , of all people when Winterfell is filled with world-weary, battle hardened soldiers who may understand what plagues her just as well as he does.

 

Jaime studies her and this is the girl who saved the realm-saved _humanity_ , and she’s like one of those stupid wooden puzzles he could never solve as a child. One moment her face is devoid of any human sentiment and the next, she’s exposed and afraid of bad dreams.

 

He wants to, he does, but his fondness for her is growing at an alarming rate, and he’s unsure how to handle that.

 

“If your brother Jon were to find me under your furs, I fear his first reaction would be to lop my head off-and unlike my hand-a gold replacement just wouldn’t be the same.”

 

“My brother is too busy consorting with the Dragon Queen to pay me any mind, and even if he did it wouldn’t matter. I’ll do what I like anyway.” She reasons.

 

Jaime looks at her a moment longer. “If I must,” he says acting put upon. “Although I warn you, you may want to air out the room once I leave. I can’t remember when I had a proper bath and I’m afraid my stench will linger.”

 

“Why didn’t you say so?” Arya asks as she walks into the room and begins rummaging through a trunk. “We’ll just go to the pools.” She says over her shoulder.

 

“The pools?” He asks from the doorway.

 

“In the Godswood.”

 

“You want to bathe _outside_? Did you hit your head harder than you thought? Perhaps Clegane was right-“

 

“They’re _hot springs_ , Ser Jaime. It’s the same water that’s what flows through Winterfell’s walls.”

 

She stops and takes in his confused look. “Should I summon the handmaiden to draw us baths instead? That’ll certainly get Jon’s attention-the fact that you’re staying in my rooms _and_ we’re bathing together.” She gathers her things in a bundle in her arms.

 

“I don’t consider myself _staying in your rooms,”_ he says as he follows her down the corridor. “I have a perfectly fine tent, you know. I consider myself your hostage.”

 

“Find yourself hostage to another Stark?”

\--

“What exactly did you mean when you said you wanted to join the Northern cause?”

 

“I meant that I’d…recommend that since Jon will be going to King’s Landing, he could renounce his titles and make you Wardeness and Protector of the North.”

 

Sansa sits at her desk. “I see.”

 

“Jon never seemed the type to _want_ power.”

 

“It’s those that don’t want it that tend to make better rulers. The opposite is true as well.” She looks him directly in the eye. “With Jon on the throne, he’ll make the North independent.”

 

“My lady, please-“

 

“No, Tyrion. She’s a foreign invader with dragons, demanding we bow and scrape simply because of her name?”

 

“You know as much as I do that a name means everything.” He counters.

 

Sansa purses her lips and looks at Tyrion. “I was right. Your loyalties will never align with mine.”

 

Tyrion swallows, and tries to ignore the pain in his chest. “I want to be here, with you. I want to be at your side when Winterfell is rebuilt, and I want to watch you protect your people-I want to share your heart and your bed.” He lowers his head and smiles to himself. “Think on how clever out children would be.”

 

Sansa watches him as he looks back up at her. “But even if that were ever to come to fruition, I would still support our queen.”

 

He takes his leave without waiting for an answer.

\--

They make their way to his tent where he gathers his belongings. Looking at it now, it looks cold and unwelcoming now that he’s had the pleasure of staying indoors.

 

The torch Arya carries lights a path down the mossy undergrowth of the Godswood. They round the weirwood tree and more oaks to the stone pools in the ground. Laying the torch carefully on a flat rock, she drops her bundle on the ground and unpins her hair.

 

Jaime looks down at himself and decides to sit to unlace his boots, trying rather hard to give her privacy, but when he stands up to remove his shirt he’s distracted by the sounds of buckles and the swish of fabric. Looking out of the corner of his eyes he sees a her bare shoulders and back from behind. He screws his eyes shut and focuses on getting himself undressed.

 

There’s a low splash and he turns to find her bobbing about in the water. He slips out of his clothes and eases himself in.

 

Arya tilts her head back and takes in the stars through the tree branches. How beautiful, she thinks. She breathes in the crisp air and the cold breeze, the rest of her submerged in the steaming water.

 

Jaime groans. “Lady Arya, if perchance you decide against the blacksmith, I’ll gladly wed you-though it’ll have to be in here-I don’t think I’m ever getting out.”

 

She looks to him lowering himself fully and reemerging. Arya bites her lip and takes in the hard cut of his chest, the ridges of his collarbones, and the curve of his shoulders. A feeling awakens inside her chest and when he opens his eyes, he catches her staring.

 

Jaime freezes and for long moments they examine each other. He can see, even in the low flickering torchlight, something in her eyes. A rare moment where she’s let her guard fall-purposely or not.

 

“Can I see it?”

 

Jaime’s eyes widen and he coughs. “My lady?”

 

Her eyes drift over his shoulder. “Your hand. Can I see it?”

 

He looks behind him where he had left his hand on the stones and nods. She glides over next to him and picks it up. With gentle fingers she runs a fingertip over each knuckle and turns it over in her hand. He watches her caress the palm.

 

“Is this yours or someone else’s?”

 

“Hand? It’s…just a hand.”

 

Arya nods and sets it behind her. She turns her body towards him and she wants to kiss him-here, now. But not like how she had taken it from Gendry, she doesn’t want that. Perhaps it’s because there’s an undercurrent of something else between them and she doesn’t know what it is.

 

She’s about to open her mouth when she stops and cocks her head, brows furrowed. She looks into the dark woods and Jaime isn’t sure what it is she’s doing. He looks to where she’s focusing and can only see a faint torch in the distance.

 

“Hello, Samwell,” Arya calls out.

 

“How did you-“ Jaime starts but is interrupted by the sound of huffing and puffing.

 

“Oh! Lady Arya! There you are,” He smiles as he approaches. As soon as he sees the state of them, his head swivels towards the trees. “Good evening, Lady Arya-and, um, Ser Jaime. I was asked by your sister to fetch you to her solar.”

 

“Now?” Arya asks.

 

“Well, yes. I’ll give you a moment to er, get…presentable.”

 --

Sansa watches the door close behind Tyrion. She fights the tears pooling in her eyes and steels herself. It no longer matters what she wants-her fight is for the North and all those who fought and died protecting it.

 

But her heart aches and for once she’s seen a glimmer of happiness in her future. And although she knows she shouldn’t concern herself with romantic entanglements, there’s still a piece of that little girl in her. The girl who just wants to love and be loved.

 

And Tyrion…unless he changes his mind, there’s no hope for them.

 

She readies for bed, allowing her handmaiden to brush out her hair. Once she settles, sleep doesn’t come easy, her mind turning over and over. And when she attempts to answer some scrolls the Dragon Queen lingers in her thoughts.

 

Sansa takes a breath and opens the door. Spotting Samwell, she beckons him.

 

 

Shortly, Arya finds herself in Sansa’s company and she feels her sister’s eyes take in her appearance-the messy wet hair and thrown on clothes-but she doesn’t say anything.

 

“What is it?”

 

“I don’t want Daenerys Targaryen on the throne.”

 

“Neither do I,” Arya answers evenly. Arya’s patient, waiting out what it is Sansa wants to say.

 

“I’ve seen enough to know she’ll be no different. I’ve told Lord Tyrion as much-“

 

“Oh?”

 

“I’ve told him about Jon-only because I thought he could find a way to-“

 

“ _You told him about Jon_?” Arya exclaims. “Why?”

 

Sansa takes a seat on her bed and gives Arya a helpless look. “Arya, Jon would make a better king-you know this-he’s better for the realms and he’ll be better for us.”

 

“I agree, but he won’t want it.”

 

“Then we’ll speak to him.”

 

\--

 

Arya finds Jaime asleep on her bed, above the furs, boots and hose neatly on the floor next to his golden hand. A wave of affection washes over her and when she walks to the other side, she sees Needle and her dagger placed on a chair. She hadn’t even realized she had left them behind at the pools.

 

She crawls into bed, not touching him, but she smiles as she falls asleep.

 

\--

 

_The ash and dirt fill his mouth as he watches them advance upon him, his back against a wall. The dead fill his vision, all rags and bones and blue eyes. He finds he can’t lift his sword and there’s nothing he can do and nowhere he can turn and the panic of it all sets in. He tries to call out but the air has left his lungs and when they get closer and closer, Jaime begins to cry-_

_Arya’s there, face rotting, little sword in her hand dragging on the ground, staring at him with those dead, blue eyes._

_Oh not her, not her, not her, he begs._

_With a weak arm he raises his sword-_

 

He hears his name and he tries to latch on to the source but everything is grey and he’s frozen in place.

 

“ _Jaime.”_

 

His eyes bolt open and he takes a shaky inhale. Above him is the large eyes and concerned face of Arya. He blinks and swallows and feels the weight of her since she straddled him, hands braced on his shoulders.

 

His hand flies to the back of her hair, folding between his fingers while his stump lays against her face.

 

“You were...one of them…and I killed-“ He chokes back a sob and pulls her hard into his shoulder. She doesn’t resist and lets herself be embraced though he holds her so tight he might have snapped her in half.

 

“I’m alive,” she whispers into his ear, voice tight. “I’m _alive_.”

 

\--

 

Tyrion wakes the next morning from a summons from the Queen. When he enters, he can feel the tension in the room.

 

\--

 

He finds Jaime leaning against the railing watching the practice yard.

 

“There you are, brother. I was hoping I’d find you-“

 

“It’s some sort of Essosi style,” Jaime interrupts. “Braavosi is my guess.”

 

“I-what?” Tyrion asks.

 

 

“Arya’s fighting style. Rather brilliant, isn’t she?”

 

Tyrion follows Jaime’s gaze and finds Arya dodging and spinning around Podrick’s blows. She really is graceful and lithe and he notes the admiration in his older brother’s eyes.

 

They watch for a few moments as another young man, some squire for one of the Vale knights joins in, and Arya handily defeats them both, arms crossed, practice swords pointed at both their bellies.

 

“Here I was thinking I’ve improved,” Podrick smiles.

 

Arya twirls both swords before placing them on the rack. “You are. You’re good, you know-I’m just better,” she teases.

 

She approaches them, flushed and smiling. Tyrion notes how pretty she is, and by the way Jaime is smiling, he’s not the only one who thinks so.

 

“That was hardly fair,” Jaime says when she’s close enough.

 

“I asked if you wanted to. That would have been fair.”

 

“No it wouldn’t have been. And I told you that I don’t care to be humiliated in front of these gruff Northmen-I have a reputation to maintain.”

 

Arya cocks an eyebrow. “What reputation? The realms’ biggest ego?”

 

Tyrion huffs out a laugh and Jaime rests his hand on his hip. “Watch your mouth, little lady, or you’ll bend you over my knee and give you a proper walloping.”

 

“Is that right?”

 

“I’ll even use the golden hand.”

 

Arya gives him a bland look as Tyrion clears his throat. “Forgive me, Lady Arya. I was hoping to have a few words with my brother.”

 

Arya blinks at Jaime and nods before turning away. Jaime takes a few steps to catch up with her and places his hand on her shoulder and speaks. She nods again and his hand moves to the back of her neck.

 

Tyrion watches and he thinks how the Stark girls have put the Lannister boys completely under their spell.

 

Once they’re in the chambers Tyrion is staying in, he pours them both wine and sighs.

 

Tyrion looks weary and sleep deprived. “It’s Sansa and Daenerys.”

 

Jaime waits for him to elaborate.

 

“They don’t care for one another.”

 

“Yes,” Jaime says slowly. “And you’re caught between two beautiful women. How awful.”

 

Tyrion ignores that and drinks. “They have different ideas on how to proceed now that the kingdoms are safe-“

 

“And you’re not sure if you should stay here with Lady Stark or continue to council your queen.”

 

“ _Our_ queen, and yes. That’s essentially the crux.”

 

“And you can’t do both? Council from here?”

 

“No, I don’t think Daenerys will allow it-I also don’t know how well she’ll accept my resignation as her Hand if that’s what I choose.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“Doesn’t that speak volumes. Father managed to resign under Aerys-“

 

“I’m not Father, nor is she Aerys.” Tyrion protests, slamming down his cup.

 

“Want to explain that to the Tarlys? Oh wait, you can’t, their very bones have turned to ash. Sound familiar?”

 

“If it weren’t for her, we’d have lost this war.”

_“And if it weren’t for Arya Stark, there would be no kingdom left to rule_.”

 

“Bloody hell, Jaime,” Tyrion sighs. “What am I supposed to do?”

 

“You’re asking _me_ for advice?” Jaime shakes his head and looks into his cup. “I…I can’t tell you what to do. Are you in love with Sansa? Are you willing to relocate to this frozen hell hole?”

 

“It isn’t that bad,” Tyrion admonishes. “And yes to both.”

 

“The time old question of love and duty, I suppose.” Jaime stretches out his legs in front of him. “Choose what will make you the happiest.”

 

Jaime looks at his brother, and doesn’t envy his position. At least, in the matters of heart, he has already chosen. Already knows where his loyalty lies-in the small hands of Ned Stark’s youngest daughter.

 

“Speaking of happiness,” Tyrion says. “Are you?

 

“Happy?” Jaime frowns and pours more wine. “I survived, that’s an excellent precursor.”

 

“You’ve been spending all your time with Lady Arya, I’ve noticed.” He says eyeing Jaime.

 

Jaime meets his look. “Yes, well…she’s somehow attached to me like a lamprey. I can’t seem to shake her.”

 

“Mmh, of course,” Tyrion mutters sarcastically. “Arya Stark following you around, in awe of the great _Ser Jaime Lannister_.”

 

Jaime chuckles into his cup. “Piss off.” He takes a drink and the smile slips from his face. “We have a lot in common, her and I.” He thinks on being in her bed and smelling her hair, the steady sound of her breath. The sheer relief of finding her next to him when he had a nightmare of his own.

 

“Jaime,” Tyrion sighs, mood changed. “What I’m about to tell you, I’m telling you in complete confidence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled and this isn't the best chapter, but when I had planned this, the show hadn't ended. And now-a few plot points are very, very similar to those in the show. I deleted a lot, then decided...fuck it. I'll write what I had intended.
> 
> so, apologies. the next chapter should be better.


	5. I fucked with forces our eyes can't see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles from Lord Huron's "Meet Me in the Woods"

They’re meandering in the woods.  Although the two of them are to be hunting, it’s really just Arya since Jaime can’t string a bow any longer.  It’s still cold, but either it’s warming slowly or Jaime has gotten used to it, because he finds himself not complaining for once.

 

They ride for a long while before Jaime breaks the silence.

 

“So, your sister wants to replace one Targaryen for another.”

 

She turns and it appears she’s unsurprised at what he’s implied.  “Careful,” she says flatly. “That’s treason.”

 

“How so?”  Jaime scoffs.  “Until she places her rear end on that thrice damned pointy chair, she’s no more queen than you are.”  Arya just lifts an eyebrow. “Just because one declares themselves ruler, does it make it so?”

 

Arya watches as he stops his horse in front of her.  “I, Ser Jaime of House Lannister,” he bellows, “do hereby claim the Iron Throne and from this day forward all shall refer to me as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and First Men, and Lord Protector of the Realm.”

 

She laughs.  “Shut up. You’re scaring away any game.”

 

“What?”  He sniffs.  “The woodland creatures heard my declaration and should be lining up to swear fealty to me.”

 

“Mm,” Arya nods.  “It’d make them easier to catch, anyway.”  He chuckles and they lead their horses deeper into the wood.

 

“Your brother-sorry, _cousin_ -is too honest and good for that shithole.” He glances at her.  “Much like your late father.”

 

Arya swallows at the mention of her father-knows the vague history between him and Jaime-and he was.  Ned Stark was too honorable, too trusting for Southern politics.

 

“Jon wouldn’t want it anyway.  He’s too far up Daenerys’ skirts.”

 

Jaime grimaces.  “Is _that_ why he bent the knee?  That’s his _aunt_.”

 

Arya whips her head around and before he can even blink, she’s nocked an arrow and let it flying into the eye of an unsuspecting rabbit.

 

“You’re one to talk.  You’ve been fucking your sister.”  She says as she drops from her saddle.  “And anyway, I like to think it was because she’d join in the war against The Others...though with Jon it’s hard to say.”

 

Jaime is looking everywhere but at her as she pulls the arrow out.  She wonders what it is he’s thinking and if he assumes she thinks less of him.  She doesn’t-not anymore anyway. He’s not the same person, Bran had said.

 

Arya drops the rabbit in her saddlebag and climbs up again, eyeing him the whole time.  When he does look at her finally, he clears his throat.

“Yes…well, aren’t I the perfect example of what not to do?  What evil comes from such a vile act?” He shifts his eyes out into the distance.

 

“Joffrey’s dead.  It doesn’t matter now.”  She says simply.

 

“Aye.”  Jaime agrees quietly.  He waits for her to say more about it, call him out as the degenerate he is, but she doesn’t.  The subject seems unceremoniously dropped.

 

They carry on, each in their own thoughts.

 

He doesn’t know how long they’ve ridden when he turns and looks at her.  What a lethal little beauty, he muses. Her posture gives her a regal air and she looks queenlier than the other two who have declared themselves as such.

 

“Why do you keep looking at me?”  Arya asks without even glancing his way.

 

Jaime flinches.  He’s noticed Arya’s uncanny ability to detect things, to notice the unnoticeable.

He decides to play off his unease.  “I was just thinking that you would make a good queen.  Arya Stark, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

“Didn’t you just declare yourself king? I guess I’d have to usurp you.”

 

“My lady, we could rule together,” he jests.  “Just think. A Stark and a Lannister wearing crowns upon our brows.  All of Westeros would tremble at our great power-the smallfolk and nobles alike would wish the Night King had won-how terrifying and formidable we would be side-by-side.”

 

Arya turns, amusement on her face.  “That’s so stupid, hearing it almost makes me wish The Others had won.”

 

Jaime laughs and Arya ducks her head and smiles.

 

\--

 

“I understand you find my actions too hasty for your liking.”

 

Tyrion clears his throat.  “Your Grace, men will fight better and more willingly if you gave them a moments rest- “

 

“ _Willingly_?”  Daenerys questions, fire in her eyes.

 

“Yes, willingly.”  He repeats, despite his better judgment.  He understands her desire to go south. To be this close to her goal only to be told to wait merely strengthens her resolve give in to her impulses.  And Daenerys is nothing but impulsive.

 

“Get the people’s sympathy.  Get them to love you.”

 

“I fought for them-I lost a child for their war- “

 

“ _Their_ war?”  Tyrion gapes.  “The war was for the _living_.  You, above all else understood that, unlike Cersei.  That is why you make a better queen-the rightful queen.  But you cannot force these men to march to King’s Landing now.”  He’s pleading, he knows, but in order to win the North to her claim…

 

Her eyes soften just so.  “Ser Jorah once told me that the smallfolk want nothing more than good health and good harvest.”  She turns, back to him.

 

“Yes,” Tyrion agrees, relieved.

 

“But Ser Jorah is dead.”  She says, voice hard. “And they will have plenty of time for health and harvest _after_ I’ve taken what’s mine.”

 

“You wanted me as your Hand because I understand Westerosi politics.  I _beg_ you.  And this isn’t just about Westeros, but the North in particular, because Northerners are a particular people.”

 

“Particular?”  Daenerys says. “I suppose you’re speaking of Lady Stark?”  She faces him now, and Tyrion feels helpless.

 

“Lady Stark’s first priority is her people, of course. Their well-being.”

 

The Queen tilts her head.  “ _Her_ people.”

 

Tyrion stares at her, looking beyond her beauty and her stature.  She’ll never let him stay in Winterfell, he realizes as his heart sinks.

 

“Will you at least consider it, Your Grace?”

 

“I’ll take your words into consideration,” she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave.

 

\--

 

Arya’s ears pick up something in the distance, and within a second, she sees it too.  As carefully as she can, she dismounts and crouches, following the faint sound. She’s only a few steps when she can hear the crunch of boots on snow as Jaime gets down to follow her.  Looking over her shoulder she glares at him for the noise he’s making.

 

He gives her an apologetic shrug.

 

Taking shallow breaths, her feet make no sound as she bends around the trees and there, standing broadside, is a stag.

 

The stag doesn’t take but a step before it falls over, her arrow pierced through the heart.

 

Jaime’s eyes go wide in admiration and Arya involuntarily bats her eyelashes.

 

They stand over her kill and Jaime holds the beast while she makes the delicate cuts to its flesh.

 

“The stomach lining can be ground and mixed with Lady’s Lace to make an ointment that relieves the pain of burns.”  She says, as they both have their hands buried in the guts.

 

Jaime pauses. “Is that right?  Where’d you learn that?”

 

Arya slows her motions.  “Just…picked it up.”

 

Jaime watches her a bit longer, but decides not to question her. “We need a travois to carry it all the way back,” he says instead.

 

“We don’t have enough rope.”

 

“Rope?” He asks, confused.  “We have enough to fasten branches together.”

 

There’s an edge in her tone as she answers. “But a woven one is stronger-we have to haul it all the way back to _Winterfell_.”

 

“I’ve had to make plenty for wounded men in battle-a wooden one will work just fine.”  He retorts, irritated. He’s had plenty of experience-

 

“And a stag is the same size as a man?”  She rolls her eyes.

 

They bicker about it, until Arya agrees to use branches, but insists on knotting the rope herself even as Jaime asserts she shouldn’t use sailing knots until she threatens to strangle him with said rope.

 

“You’d have to reach me first, _my little lady_ ,” Jaime says smugly.

 

Arya bites down the urge to laugh.  “You know, when we’re sleeping, we’re the same height.”

 

Jaime gives her a cocky smile.  “Are you saying you’d like to use that rope on me _in bed_?”

 

Her cheeks burn as she jumps over the newly built travois, and whips him in the arm with the small length of rope she has.

 

He keeps that smile as he clutches his arm.  “Oh ho. My lady enjoys a bit of that as well- “

 

She gives an indignant laugh as she tosses the rope from one hand to the other and goes to whack him again, but he’s expecting it and catches her wrist.

 

His good hand and both of hers are covered in blood, but neither of them notices as he flicks the rope out of her fist with his fingertips and pulls her ever so closer.

 

Arya feels a change between them, humor of a moment ago melted away.  She’s let herself be caught by him, lets herself be pulled closer as she thinks of how engaging his eyes are.  Her pulse quickens and she bites her lip.

 

He watches her as he slowly brings her flush against him.  The wide eyes, the plump lip caught in her teeth. _So little yet so fierce, so fucking beautiful_ -a mishmash of thoughts swirl around his head.

How long they stand, unmoving, is uncertain.  The forest is quiet around them as they regard each other.

 

“We…should probably get moving,” Jaime whispers, eyes never leaving hers.

 

“It’ll be dark soon,” she breathes.

 

He gently releases her.

 

\--

 

Tyrion is going to get drunk, he decides.  Roaring, piss-yourself drunk. It was the second meeting he’d had with the Queen today, and both were equally unsuccessful.

 

And now wine.

 

He thinks of seeking out Jaime to join him, but then remembers his brother telling him he was going hunting with Lady Arya.

 

He walks to his chambers cutting through the courtyard when he spies Sansa speaking with the new Captain of the Guard, her long red hair shining in the low, dull sun.  An unmatched beauty, he thinks as he forces himself to look away. Because looking at her hurts as much as it delights him.

 

\--

 

Sansa goes about her day, seeing to the running of the castle, and it’s increasingly wearing on her.  She blames the foreign armies and the dragons and the Dragon Queen for her miseries since she’s forced to juggle rations to an extent she didn’t think possible.  The dragons alone eat enough livestock in a _day_ to feed all of Winterfell and its surrounding area for more than a  _fortnight_.

 

“Lady Stark.”

 

Sansa turns to find Lord Varys standing near the East Gate.

 

“Lady Stark,” he begins hesitantly.  “Perhaps I could have a word?”

 

\--

 

They ride in near silence again, Jaime’s horse dragging Arya’s kill.  He ponders his actions towards her, though there really isn’t a need. It’s more than just some easily given loyalty to her because she values him.  It’s because he now understands that _this_ precise brand of loyalty only occurs very rarely and for a very particular reason.

 

He then suggests they stop for the night.  His ass is sore, he’s tired, and he doesn’t want the horses tripping up.

 

Arya reluctantly agrees and steers them towards a hillcrest.  They lope around until there’s a clearing surrounded by what Jaime thinks are the low, overgrown mounds that may have been cairns of the First Men, or something of the like.

 

They find a burrow at the base of a dead tree and Arya goes to peer inside.  There’s room for the two of them, but nothing else. It’ll have to do, snow is falling now, though it’s only the thick, heavy wet snow that’s not sticking.

 

They work in quiet companionship as Jaime tends the horses as Arya finds wood.

 

\--

 

Sansa searches through the castle in search of Tyrion.  Her conversation with Varys was certainly illuminating and verified her suspicions and mistrust of Daenerys.  As to how much she could trust Varys was debatable, but his words rung true to her ears.

 

She nearly exhausts all possibilities when she goes to his chamber door.  There’s no answer when she knocks, and decides she’ll takes her chances and pushes the heavy door open.

 

There, inside, and sprawled on the bed is Tyrion.  The room reeks of wine, and she sees a pitcher knocked over.  Sighing, she rights it and glances at him. She thinks on all those years ago in King’s Landing and how she wishes she would have acted differently.

 

Softly, she sits on the bed and pulls Tyrion’s boots off.  She struggles a little pulling the linens and furs from under him.  Once she’s satisfied that he’s in a position that’ll be more comfortable when he wakes up, she leans down and kisses his cheek.

 

She pulls away and a hand reaches for her upper arm.  Startled, she sees Tyrion with bleary eyes blinking at her.

 

“Sansa?”  His voice is heavy and his breath smells like wine.

 

“Sleep well, Lord Tyrion,” she whispers.

 

His shaky hand moves to her face.  “I wish…I wish I could tell you how much I truly love you.”

 

Sansa’s heart clenches in her chest, and for a moment it’s too hard to move or breathe.  Instead of saying anything, she takes his hand and pats it, laying it at his side.

 

\--

 

They finish off the rabbit sitting in the entrance of the burrow.  Arya stands and grabs a wineskin out of her saddlebag and tosses it to Jaime.  He nods and takes a drink, then passes it to her as she sits back down.

 

“Tell me true, Lady Arya,” he says as he scoots closer to the fire.  “How in the Seven Hells did you end up with The Hound?”

 

Arya takes a large drink, then another before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

“After King’s Landing.  After Joffrey took my father’s head.”  She tells him bits and parts, never looking at him.  She had never thought she’d ever tell anyone what had happened.

 

Jaime startles when she speaks about Harrenhal and his father.

 

“He knew I was highborn, though not exactly who I was.  He protected me…he wasn’t kind, but he wasn’t cruel-he compared me to Cersei once.”

 

He thinks on that, his lord father protecting Arya Stark, right under his nose.  Then he thinks about why he’d compare Arya to Cersei, but he supposes he can see it.They’re both strong and clever and beautiful.  Where Cersei was the sun-vibrant and bright-she’d burn you before too long.  Arya was the cold, shining moon-liable to turn a man crazy when staring too long.  Yet there was something about Arya Stark that his sister never possessed.

 

When she talks about Sandor, her voice hitches a little.  She had hated him at the time, but she realized later that every smack, every cruel word, every harsh truth was for her own sake-he’d been doing the best he could with a vicious little girl who had lost everything.

 

“I was convinced you were dead,” Jaime says after she pauses to drink more wine.  “I vowed to bring both you and your sister home, but when you couldn’t be found…

 

“It all worked out.” She says shrugging.  “I never would have made it to Braavos otherwise.”

 

“And what the fuck were you doing in _Braavos_?”

 

She almost doesn’t want to say.  For the first time, she’s worried of what he may think of her…she doesn’t want him to be wary or afraid of her, like many are.  Taking a deep breath, she decides to anyway.

 

“Training at The House of Black and White…with the Faceless Men.”

 

“The Fac-the assassins?   _The world’s most deadly assassins_?”  He looking at her, jaw nearly unhinged from his face.

 

She just nods.  “That’s where I learned…well, where I learned a great deal.  Learned enough for the Freys anyway.”

 

He frowns.  The Freys? Then it occurs to him.  On his way north, the smallfolk had talked of the Freys poisoned during a feast.   _Winter has come for House Frey,_ they had said.

 

Winter has come for House Frey.

 

“That was you?   _How_?”

 

“Poison.”

 

“The _entire male line_?”

 

She doesn’t answer as he gapes at her.  Then he begins to chuckle.

 

“How absolutely fucking brutal-and magnificent.  I could never stand that old wrinkly bastard nor his half-wit family.  You’ve done Westeros a great favor, my lady.”

 

Arya answers with a small smile.

 

 

They had fallen asleep next to each other, not touching one another, but somehow Jaime stirs with the vague feeling he’s by himself.  Sitting up the best he can, he sees Arya sitting at the entrance, staring out at the woods beyond.

 

“I can’t sleep.”  She says.

 

He narrows his eyes, irritated.  “Well I can. And I sleep much better with you next to me, so kindly get your small ass over here.”

 

She huffs at him as she crawls back in, and as soon as her back hits the ground, he pulls her roughly to him, pillowed on his arm.  Pulling their cloaks over them, he wraps an arm around her middle and curls himself around her.

 

Arya swallows, and instead of pulling herself out of his grasp she lets herself be pulled to sleep once again with the warmth of his body and protectiveness of his touch.

 

\--

 

The hour is late and Sansa finds Samwell in what remains of the library.  He stands to greet her and she smiles kindly at him as she takes a seat across from him, piles of dusty rolls of parchments scattered around.

 

“Sam, I need to speak with you-but first I need to know that you swear allegiance to House Stark.”

 

“Of course, my lady,” he says, cocking his head.  “I figured you could use someone like me-and not just because I have limited options elsewhere.  But to be sure, I’m at your service…you and Jon…and well-all of the North.”

 

Sansa has a soft spot for Sam-his kindness and smarts- and inadvertently trusts him.  “You know about Jon.”

 

Sam sighs.  “I do-I’ve tried telling him that he’s the rightful heir to the throne, and that I doubt _he’d_ burn people alive-“

 

“What happened to your family was a great injustice,” Sansa says, angry on Sam’s behalf.  “And you’re right, Jon would never do such a thing. I’ve heard tales of Daenerys’ exploits in Essos, and she seems to have a particular brand of justice that doesn’t sit well with me.”

 

“She _is_ a Targaryen,” he explains, as if that excuses it.  “Although you very well know what a Targaryen did to your grandfather and uncle. Obviously.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been wary of Dany. I sort of sympathized with her in the first book, but by DwD, I was fully not a Targ fan. The show just reiterated what I assumed would be her arc-which is obvious, I think. This is not a Targ friendly story. I am (and always have been) a Stark loyalist.
> 
> I highly recommend Lord Huron's "Meet Me in the Woods" as a Jaime/Arya theme and The Mountain Goat's "Up the Wolves" for Tyrion/Sansa. I listened to both in constant rotation while writing this.
> 
> Also, there should be more Sanrion out there in the world.
> 
> Leave your thoughts, if you're so inclined.


	6. Say goodbye to who I was

 

Sansa decides to break her fast in her chambers the next morning.  There are too many raven’s scrolls and too much on her mind for company, and her food sits untouched at her elbow.  She tries to compartmentalize the information she has-use it, plan, think of all possible outcomes…

 

There’s a knock and a servant declares Lord Tyrion at her door.  She swallows and looks down at her dressing gown before allowing Tyrion to enter.

 

When he does, she tries not to smile. He’s bathed, but he has the awkward gait and miserable look on his face of someone who had gotten too far into his cups the night before.

 

“Good morning, my lord.”

 

Tyrion blinks and rubs his eyes with his fingertips.  “Good morning to you, my lady.  May I impose?”

 

Sansa motions to the seat across from her at her desk.  “Would you please bring Lord Tyrion the same?”  she asks the serving girl, gesturing to her plate.

 

“And some dark ale, if you’d be so kind,” he says over his shoulder.  The serving girl curtsies and closes the door as she leaves.

 

In the silence of her room they catch each other’s eye and neither say anything.  Sansa thinks on his words last night, and she tries hard to keep her heart from beating too fast.  Granted, he was rather drunk at the time, but she had learned that often, men will say what the really mean-unlike when they’re sober.

 

“So, my lady,” Tyrion starts.  “I’ve spoken to Queen Daenerys.  She assures me she’d consider holding off on marching south.  I thought you may appreciate that.”

 

At the mention of Daenerys’ name, Sansa frowns slightly.  “She’ll consider it?  How thoughtful.”  Tyrion flinches and Sansa realizes she may have come off a bit too harsh.  He’s doing the best he can, she knows.  “I do honestly value what you’re trying to do.”

 

“Well, despite her strength, Daenerys is…fickle, as monarchs tend to be.”

 

“An interesting choice of words,” Sansa says to that.  She picks at a piece of bread, head down.  “Words are wind, or so I’m told.”  She doesn’t want to look at him, afraid her face will give away what she really means, afraid to give away that his words to her struck her deeply in a place she thought long dead.

 

“Words are all we have, Sansa-“

 

“You told me last night that you loved me,” she interrupts, looking at him directly.  “What if I were to say that I love you too?”

Tyrion’s momentarily at a complete loss.  It feels as though his breath has been stolen out of his lungs.  He gawks at her, unable to believe his ears.  She sits rigidly, auburn hair down around her shoulders, blue eyes challenging him.

 

Gods above-that wasn’t a dream, he thinks. 

 

The game has suddenly changed.  Tyrion thinks about leaving and going to King’s Landing and never before has he been so afraid.  Leaving behind Sansa, even temporarily, causes him pain.

 

“Did you mean it?”  She asks.

 

Tyrion reaches out with a shaky hand and holds hers.  “Truly. Yes.  Yes, my lady.”

 

\--

 

Arya wakes with the scent of him in her nostrils, her face buried in the crook of his neck underneath their cloaks.  She feels the steady press of his chest against her and she inhales deeply.  For the first time in a long time, she isn’t ready to bolt out of bed the moment she wakes.  Now, this morning, she’s relishing in the heat and feel of Jaime. 

 

She’s never been this close to someone-just sleeping anyway- and she’s surprised to find how pleasant it is. It’s pleasant with _Jaime_ at least, and it’s not as though she wants to test that theory with anyone else.  No, it’s him that she wants at her side.

 

Now.  Always.

 

It’s rather odd that this thought doesn’t startle her as it probably should.  Attachments have never suited her well, but she’s attached to him and he’s attached to her, she knows.  Throughout all these years and through all the people that have linked them, it’s now that they’ve found each other-only now their paths have crossed.

 

Jaime is stiff, but warm.  The hard ground is unforgiving on him at his age, but the warmth in his arms counters it.  He breathes in and pulls Arya closer to him.  He doesn’t know if she’s awake or not, but as long as she lets him, he’ll hold on to her.

 

She shuffles a bit and pulls back a little to look up at him.  She looks so sweet, his tiny little assassin. Because that’s what he thinks of her now- _his_.  He wants her like this, looking up at him with those wise eyes as she lays content in his arms, now… _always_ , if he’s being honest.

 

As her gloved hand makes its way to his face, he rakes his eyes down from her grey eyes to her button nose to her plump little lips.  He watches as her bottom lip is caught between her teeth and he struggles a bit to raise his good hand to her chin and gently pulls to release it.  As he does, he meets her eyes again.

 

She releases a shallow breath, and that’s when he decides to kiss her. 

 

Slowly, he brings himself to her, and the moment his lips touch hers, he realizes how fucked he is.  Jaime has fallen for her, and he knows that this kiss seals his fate.

 

Arya pulls away, eyes shining.  It was just a small kiss, but somehow it’s better than anything she’s ever experienced.  If just a peck on the lips from him sends her heart soaring, how would laying with him feel?

 

She blushes at the thought, then feels stupid immediately after.  She’s a woman grown, already known the touch of a man-she’s killed and fought and held her own, but somehow this man brings feelings to the surface that she hadn’t even known she was capable of.

 

“I have to piss,” she says before wiggling out of his arms and stumbling outside.

 

Jaime blinks at her, confused, but a small smile graces his face as he lays on his back and stares at the dirt laced roots dangling above his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, I know. It's summer break, so now my days off are spent hanging out with my 4 kids and not writing. Next update should be in a couple of days, though-for those still interested.
> 
> Cheers!


	7. Show me yours and I'll show you mine

They begin their way back to Winterfell saying little between them.  Arya sits stiffly, eyes ahead, ensuring she’s not giving away her warring emotions.  Truthfully, she had been curious about him, and she had so far been proven right, if the small kiss was anything to go by-but this was Jaime Lannister, son of _Tywin_ , sister to the _Queen_.  It wasn’t that he was a Lannister, a family that was actively at war with her own, but the fact that she didn’t seem to have any qualms over that at all.  _That_ was the most vexing thing about it.

 

She thinks about Gendry.  She chose him because he was close to her age, and was safe.  Gendry is _good_ in the ways that matter, but she isn’t, and that’s why when the dust had settled and they’d survived, she avoided him.  That had hurt her, but it was better for him not to get entangled with her, especially when it’s rather obvious he wants a commitment that she could never give him.

 

Perhaps that’s why she’s grown so fond of the one-handed knight that killed his own king.  The two of them are cut from the same cloth-good and bad in equal measure.  It also doesn’t hurt that he is rather easy on the eyes.

 

Arya stops herself from turning to look at him.  If anyone would have told her she was to share a kiss with the golden Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard that strode into Winterfell all those years ago, she would have died from laughter.  But now, it’s more than a kiss she wants from him.

 

“You look like your Aunt Lyanna.  Has anyone ever told you that?”

 

Arya shakes herself from her thoughts and turns this time, meeting his eyes for the first time since she woke up that morning.

 

“What?”

 

“Your father’s sister, Lyanna Stark,” he says slowly as if she were simple.  “You look just like her.” 

 

“I know who she is,” she retorts.  “How would you know?”

 

Jaime nudges his horse so they’re riding side by side.  “Tourney at Harrenhall.   Where I received that glorious white cloak,” he sighs.  “But she was there.  She really was quite the beauty-although a little too wild for my tastes.”

 

He watches her swallow at his words, a tell he’s only just discovered since he’s been spending nearly every moment in her company for days. 

 

“I don’t think I’ll be running away with any princes, so at least I won’t be the catalyst for any wars.”

 

“Don’t underestimate the things men do for beautiful women they love,” Jaime says solemnly while eyeing her.  Just the thought of Arya just being _betrothed_ to anyone gives him a painful ache in his stomach, let alone running away with any princes.

 

“Are you planning on going to King’s Landing, then?” She asks with a sharp tone.  “Save your lady love from Daenerys?”

 

He jolts in his saddle as a sharp pang of guilt shoots through him.  He wasn’t planning anything for the near future, let alone that.  There is a fear for Cersei and the unborn babe growing in her belly but if the Targaryen girl is bent on taking King’s Landing, there is little he could do anyway.  He feels for his unborn child, but in truth, the child should never have been.

 

“No, I wasn’t. Fact of the matter is that I have gained rather comfortable quarters in a big castle with a pretty girl who managed to kill an entire house and not get caught,” he says breezily, though it is the truth.  “If only it weren’t so damnably cold up here.” 

 

“She’s your sister.” She states, as if he’s forgotten.

 

“She is.” He nods.  “However, she has her Queensguard, the City Watch, and what is left of the Lannister army at her disposal.  Along with the Golden Company.” 

 

“The Golden Company?” She frowns.  “I heard about them when I was in Braavos.  It’s said they have elephants.”

 

Jaime groans.  “The fucking elephants-yes I’ve heard the same.”

 

“How do you think they’d get elephants on a ship?” 

 

He gives her a puzzled look.  “How would _I_ know?  Do you think I run a menagerie?”

 

Arya snorts.  “I’ve always wanted to see one.”

 

“You live in a world where there are dragons and direwolves and giants, and you want to see an elephant?” 

 

She shrugs and smiles at him, closed lipped and it reminds him of how young she is-but he can’t help but return it.  Such a small gesture from her sends his heart to a frantic pace and he wonders how she’d react if he pulled her off her horse and kissed her- _really_ kissed her.  Jaime hasn’t felt so boyishly giddy over a stolen kiss since he was twelve and kissed a girl visiting Crakehall when he was squiring there.  She was a Garner…or maybe a Greenfield…the only thing he can remember now was that she had dark hair.

 

“Casterly Rock used to have lions.”

 

Arya raises an eyebrow.  “Of course you did.  Where did you get lions?”

 

Jaime matches her expression.  “My grandsire brought them over from who knows where to impress some kitchen wench or servant girl he was bedding at the time.”

 

“That’s stupid.”

 

“It is,” he sighs.  “They were old when I was a boy.  Cersei used to dare me to climb their cages.”

 

“A golden lion for _the golden lions_.  How appropriate.”

 

He flinches and looks at her.  “Well, I’m past my golden days, wouldn’t you say?  Except for,” he waves his hand, “this.”

 

Arya casually glances up at his hair.  “A bit more grey than golden, really.”

 

Jaime scoffs at her.

 

\--

 

She wants to tell him what she’s learned from Varys.  What exactly the Targaryen girl did, and how vicious her haphazard rule had been.  But she doesn’t, opting for a quiet morning as they pick at their food and swap stories about King’s Landing.  Tyrion tells her bawdy tales about this knight or that lady, and she spends her day smiling

 

 A serving girl comes to ask about the mid-day meal, and Sansa tells her to bring it up. 

 

“For m’lord as well?”  The girl asks timidly.

 

“Yes,” Tyrion answers.  “M’lord will take his meal here along with more ale, if you please.”

 

Once the girl is gone Tyrion raises an eyebrow.  “So, any children we may have will take the Stark name, I presume.  I imagine the Northerners would be mightily displeased with a Lannister in Winterfell.”

 

Sansa’s eyes widen in disbelief and her cheeks redden.  “There’s two Lannisters in Winterfell, if you recall.  And is that a proposal?”

 

“I love you and you love me-is that not the natural conclusion?”

 

\--

 

The Great Hall is filled tonight, and Arya and Jaime sit pressed against one another, while at the high table Sansa and Tyrion are closer than necessary given the size of it.

 

There’s more cheer in the air as the stag they brought home provided more heft to the stew than before, not to mention rabbit pies from the traps set by the kitchen staff, and a strong red wine brought up from the cellars.

 

 

Sansa laughs.  “Winterfell can’t be that frightening to you.”

 

“Oh my lady,” Tyrion shakes his head.  “I’ve become too acquainted with your long-dead ancestors.  I fear I shall come across the animated bones of a Stark king around every corner.”

 

She leans towards him conspiratorially.  “Then we ought to make sure to close our chamber door properly-wouldn’t want any of the dead hiding behind the canopy.”

 

Tyrion raises both eyebrows at her words and restrains himself from reaching out to her.  “Oh come now, Sansa.  I’m still young and virile-I can still take more than one woman in my bed.  Though I suppose if it were a skeleton, that would leave entirely too many options as to where to put my cock.”

 

Sansa chokes on her wine.  “That’s absolutely vile, Tyrion.”

 

“You’ve agreed to think about marrying me- _again_.  It’s up to you now to check our bed for any unwanted visitors-dead or alive.”

 

“Should that be the case, should I replace my handmaidens for old crones?”  She eyes him.

 

Tyrion’s face falls slightly and he does now dare to reach out and place his hand on hers where it rests on the arm of the chair.

 

“Sansa, that was a long time ago.  If…if you agree to this, there will never come a time where I’ll stray from your side,” he starts softly.  “I thank the gods that we have crossed paths again, and now that we here, together, I can’t bear the thought of not being with you.  I meant it when I said that I love you.  Now and always.”

 

There’s a sudden hush within the hall and Sansa and Tyrion turn to find Daenerys standing, cup in hand.

 

“I’d like to thank everyone in the north for their generosity.  It has been a privilege to fight amongst you.”  Daenerys says.

 

Arya goes still and Jaime looks over at her.  She watches every movement, every twitch of muscle in the Dragon Queen’s mannerisms.

“A special thank you to Arya Stark, hero of Winterfell.”  Daenerys’ words bring shouts and cheers from the tables.

 

“ _Hero of Westeros_!”  A loud Northern brogue bellows, and an even louder clamor is raised as stomps and cheers nearly shake the floor beneath their feet.

 

Daenerys’ smile falters just so, and Arya takes careful notice, ignoring everything else around her.  Arya watches as a look passes her face-Daenerys isn’t looking at any of them, but at some fixed point at the back of the hall.

 

She speaks a bit more, but Arya is too wrapped up in what she’s _not_ saying, though she notes the cadence and lilt of her voice.  There’s something she’s hiding, or not willing to come forth as truth.  Daenerys Targaryen is hiding behind a kind, beautiful visage when there lay something dark behind it.  She hides behind her name, her dragons, her _nephew_. 

 

A warm hand pats her knee, and she tears herself away long enough to look over at Jaime, who looks mildly concerned.

 

“And what is the _hero of Westeros_ thinking about?”  He asks into her ear.

 

Arya only answers him with a hard look.

 

“And this why you are to fight for your queen.  As long as the Usurper claims my family’s throne, there will be no justice in this world.  In seven days’ time, we are to march south.  Reciprocation is of the utmost paramount.  I fought your war-now we are to fight for the good of the realm.”

 

Her declaration is met with a few cheers in agreement, but more noticeably the low rumble of conversation.  Daenerys sets her cup down and looks to Jon, who gives her a weak smile.

 

“Ser Jaime Lannister.”

 

Arya’s heart starts a rapid beat and she grips Jaime’s leg as he clears his throat and stands up.  “Your grace?”  He gives a respectful bow, and suddenly Arya is more fearful than she has been in quite some time. 

 

“Ser Jaime,” Daenerys begins.  “I’m sure I can count on you to join us to rid the capital of your traitor sister.  You’d be most helpful, I should think.”

 

The hall is now quiet, all on eyes on Jaime, and Arya bolts up without second thought. 

 

“ _Your grace_ ,” Arya says, remembering to bow as well.  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”  She looks up at Jaime who’s looking at her with wide eyes.  “You see, Ser Jaime is my sworn shield…so he can’t go south, as he is to remain here with me.”

“Forgive me, Lady Arya,” Daenerys says with false humor.  “I would think you’re the last person who would need protection.”

 

“Ser Jaime fought valiantly against the dead and for Winterfell. For that he was rewarded.  His loyalty lies with myself and House Stark.”

 

Arya can feel the tension in the room, and can read the anger on the Dragon Queen at her words.  “Pardon, your grace,” she says as she steps over the bench and goes to leave, and Jaime stumbles a little as he follows.

 

 

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?”  Jaime demands as he yanks her sleeve and forces her to turn around. “You’ve just put a target on your back- do you understand?  A bloody _dragon-shaped_ target-“

 

Arya’s eyes are bright with unshed tears, and Jaime’s ire quickly dissipates and his words dry up.

 

“I don’t trust her and I couldn’t let her take you,” she says, anger simmering. 

 

“I know, but can’t you see what you’ve done?”

 

“ _I don’t care,”_ Arya says.  “You’ll _die_ down there, Jaime.”

 

“Damn you,” he breathes as he pulls her into his arms.  Her own arms squeeze like a vice and he holds tighter.  I can’t leave you, he thinks as he rests his face on the top of her head.  I can’t and I won’t.

 

Her words are muffled as she speaks into his chest. “Even if you survive, Daenerys will burn you alive afterward.  Death comes for us all-but not for you, not yet.”

 

He slowly pulls away and lifts her face as best as he can.  “When she takes the throne, she’ll kill the both of us anyway.”

 

Arya’s face hardens.  “Let her try.” 

 

Jaime takes her in and blinks back the sting in his eyes. There’s a promise in her words, and he doesn’t question it.  It’s then that everything comes bubbling up to the surface.  Ned Stark’s daughter defending him inside the walls of Winterfell against the Targaryen threat.  Arya Stark knows the things he’s done, and yet…

 

Jaime bends down and kisses her with a fierceness he thought himself no longer capable of.  Her small hands grip him as she kisses back and her skin smells like winter winds and ash and she tastes like newness of spring and the slight sour of the wine she had for dinner.

 

Her hot little tongue flicks through his mouth and hardens his cock.  Jaime can feel her breath on his face as he lifts her up and she wraps her legs around him, never detaching themselves from one another.  Old and one-handed he may be, but she is a small thing and weighs nearly nothing.

 

He guides them so her back is against the cold stone wall.  Her head hits it a little too sharply and she bites his lip.  He grunts and instinctually thrusts himself against her open legs.  She moans and tightens her legs and he can’t help but do it again.

 

Arya can feel his hardness and the _need_ for him spreads through her body-hot and coiled and ready to spring at any moment.  She pulls at him with her hands, his hair his shoulders, anywhere that will bring him closer to her.

 

He buries his face into her shoulder as he pushes himself against her-harder this time-and she hears him breathe out her name.  What would it be like, she hazily wonders, to have the lion mount the wolf?

 

There’s a low tap of footsteps coming from around the bend of the corridor towards them, and Arya considers ignoring it until it comes closer.  She pushes at his shoulders, and he pants looking into her eyes.  Releasing her legs, she slides down and turns towards the sound.  Jaime places a hand on her upper arm as a shadow emerges from the single lit brazier.

The shadow is Gendry.

 

“ _Arya_ -Arya, I’ve been looking for you.”  He smiling as he approaches, face flushed with wine.

 

“Gendry.”  Arya smiles back.

 

He gets closer and it’s only then he sees Jaime behind her, but doesn’t seem to care.  “The Queen,” he stammers.  “The Queen legitimized me-“

 

“ _I’m sorry, who_ -“  Jaime begins with impatience, but Arya interrupts by congratulating him.

 

“I’m a Baratheon now-and Lord of Storm’s End.”  She can feel the shock radiating from Jaime although she’s not looking at him.  “And…well, that’s why I was searching for you.”  It’s then that Gendry fully notices Jaime’s presence.  “Could you excuse us, Ser?  I need a few words with Arya alone-“

 

The shock at Gendry’s parentage disappears as quickly as it came for Jaime.  “With all due respect, _my lord_ ,” he says cockily, “did you not hear how I’m my lady’s shield? I shan’t leave her side-especially unchaperoned-“

 

“ _Jaime_ ,” Arya turns to him and nods as one does in an attempt to dismiss him, but she can’t help but smile as he glares at her before leaving.

 

\--

 

He swipes a hand down his face as he stumbles through an archway into the open night.  People are drinking and japing and for a second he’s lost his bearings.  The throbbing in his breaches thankfully eases and he spies the tower that houses Arya’s rooms.

 

Pushing open the heavy door, Jaime stops as he sees Brandon Stark silently watch the flames in the fireplace.

 

“Oh,” Jaime says, clearing his throat.  “Pardons, perhaps this isn’t the right chambers.”  He turns swiftly and moves to shut the door.

 

“No. You’ve got the correct one.”  Bran says, not looking at him.  “This is Arya’s room.”

 

Jaime stands, slightly dumbfounded, and doesn’t know how to explain that yes, he knows that, without coming off as lecherous or something.

 

“Does she share her dreams?”

 

Jaime’s head cocks in confusion. “ _Dreams_?” 

 

“Yes.  You and her are rather similar in that.” 

 

“I…yes.  But many people that have seen battle share the same sorts of dreams.” Jaime says, torn as to whether or not to ask how he knows.

 

Bran turns to look at Jaime.  “You and Arya are reflections of each other.  Not mirror images, but the wavering essence when you look into the water.”

 

Jaime moves to stand in front of him, though his legs feel as though they will give out.  “Forgive me.  I don’t understand.”

 

Bran gives a slight nod.  “What would you do if you’re taking a long journey down a hard road and one of the spokes on your wagon wheel breaks?”

 

“Fix it?”  Jaime answers, unable to gauge where the conversation is going.

 

“How?”

 

“ _How_?”  He’s too unnerved to ask this strange boy what it is he’s trying to say.  “Replace the spoke?  Find something better-stronger.  Why, may I ask?”

 

“Some people would break the wheel and start anew.  Smash it to pieces in attempt to make something better-but even then, it will still be just another wheel.”

 

Before Jaime can even think to answer, Bran turns again.

 

“Hello, Arya.”

 

Jaime spins to find Arya standing there, just a few feet away.

 

“Hullo, brother.”

 

“And what did you say to him?”  Bran asks and Arya takes a deep breath.

 

“What did you say about _what_?” Jaime asks.

 

Arya flicks her eyes to Jaime before facing her brother.  “I said _no_ , obviously.  Can you even imagine? How did you even-is t _hat_ why you’re in here?”

 

Bran gives her a hint of a smile.

 

Jaime raises his voice and looks to Arya, “What did you say _no_ to and to _whom_?” 

 

Arya rolls her eyes to the ceiling and swallows.  “Gendry asked to marry me-make me the Lady of Storm’s End.”

 

It’s instantaneous- the hot, unfurling jealousy.  “ _What_?”  Jaime takes a few paces so that he’s directly in front of her.  He crosses his arms and then uncrosses them, placing them on his hips.  “ _And what did you say_?”

 

Arya glares at him.  “Are you stupid or deaf?  I _just said_ that I’m not going to.  Nor do I want to.”

 

Jaime’s jaw clenches and he takes a breath through his nose.  “I ought to pummel the shit out of that up jumped blacksmith bastard for even _looking_ at you.”

 

Arya takes a step closer and her eyes narrow.  “Lay a hand on Gendry, and I’ll pummel _you_ ,” she says lowly, though she can see in Jaime’s face there’s no malice in his words, just jealousy, and it makes her head spin.

 

“Is that right?”  he asks in his own quiet way as he closes the small distance between them.  “I suppose it’s in my best interest to _stay right here_ then. To shield you from any other _lords_ that would be so presumptuous as to ask for your hand.”  Jaime’s green eyes are blazing in the firelight, more feral animal than chivalrous knight, and she feels her insides burn-her heart, her belly, between her legs-

 

“Sister, could you take me to the library tower?”

 

Arya jerks her head, feeling foolish, and she wills herself to calm down.  She moves to wheel him out, not even glancing up.  As she pushes towards the doorway, Bran turns to look behind him at Jaime.

 

“Ser Jaime, there _is_ an ‘afterwards’ now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Tyrion just became so hard for me here, which is why this is so Jaime and Arya heavy-but there is some hints as for what's to come-hopefully it isn't too fucking obvious.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around and feel free to drop me a line.


	8. (say goodbye to who i was)

He struggles to keep up with her.  His hips and knees ache from her brisk pace, but he has no choice but to follow if he wants to be heard.  She’s angry, he knows, and he fears the next words that will leave her mouth.

 

They go to the library where war council is set up.  Tyrion, Missandei, Varys, and Grey Worm trail dutifully behind Daenerys and Varys silently lights candles in the dark room.

 

They stand as the queen paces ever so and Tyrion does not ignore the fact that Jon hadn’t come after her declaration.  He also can’t ignore the fact that aside from Daenerys’ council, none in the hall had stood as she went to leave, but had done so as Sansa got up in a well-hidden fury. 

 

Tyrion can’t do much about Sansa until he speaks to the queen, which he is rather hesitant to do at the moment.  She will never win the North to her cause, Tyrion thinks bleakly.  He realizes how angry he is-angry that Daenerys has not listened to reason. 

 

“This…” Tyrion begins quietly, “this is…folly, Your Grace.”  He looks up directly at her, and he keeps his eyes on her as she turns to look at him.

 

“Folly?”  Daenerys repeats, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.  “Tell me, Lord Hand, do you presume to call my actions to claim what is mine _folly_?”

 

Her tone is calm, but the look in her eyes isn’t, and for a moment he is terrified of her.  Perhaps this is what Jaime had seen in her father’s eyes as he called to Rossart to set the city ablaze.

 

“Yes,” Tyrion says with all the conviction he can muster.  “The men who fought have not seen a moon’s turn of rest-I insist you cannot force them to march for you now.  Did you not take notice that some of the soldiers are still _bleeding_ from their bandages?”  When she doesn’t answer, he ploughs on.  “I run the risk of repeating myself, but please, do not do this.  What will become of Winterfell and the North if you take all the able-bodied men right now?  If my sister decides to attack this far-“

 

“If your sister decides to attack this far, it will leave King’s Landing vulnerable, which I assume is the most opportune time to strike.” 

 

Tyrion hangs his head and concedes, although what worries him most hasn’t been addressed.  “And Winterfell?” He asks as he looks back up at her.

 

“Lady Stark, you mean?”  Daenerys answers coldly.  “She’s a smart woman, she’ll think of something, I don’t doubt.”

 

\--

 

Jaime sits in a wooden chair in front of the fire, legs sprawled out in front of him and chin resting in his hand.  He stares into the flames waiting for Arya’s return.  He thinks of Daenerys Targaryen’s words and Arya’s, when the delicate lilt of Cersei’s voice snakes its way into his mind. 

 

Closing his eyes, he pictures Cersei on the throne and what will happen if the city is attacked.  He thinks on the babe, sure to be golden haired and green eyed, of his other children now cold bones in their graves.  He loves her still-always has-deeply and effortlessly since his very first breath, but now that he’s come this far, it isn’t the same love.  For the first time, it feels as though he loves her as his sister-not lover, not mother of his children.  Jaime wants to protect her, protect her from harm as he’s always done, but he can’t.

 

There truly is nothing he can do, except die with her. 

 

The thought scares him when he realizes he doesn’t want to die-not even for her.

 

Perhaps it’s proximity that has changed the way of his heart, but that’s just a feeble excuse.  He had spent years away from Cersei without it dimming his need for her.  In truth he knows exactly what changed.

 

Little Lady Arya had cast some sort of spell on him.  The memory of her tongue and her strong, small hands all over him sends a hot, quaking feeling through his bones. 

 

A loud crackle from the fire startles him and his eyes bolt open just as he realizes why Robert’s bastard was so keen on Arya enough for him to want to wed her and why she was careful to avoid him.  _She had laid with him_. 

 

Jaime can feel the wave of jealousy again.  The kind of jealousy that made his hands shake and vision blur.  It wasn’t that she wasn’t a maid, but the fact that she was a highborn girl of ancient blood from a noble house-a catch if ever there was one.  If she was to survive whatever the morrow brought, suitors will be banging down the gates of Winterfell with a battering ram for a chance to have her hand.

 

Other men are bound to want her, is that why you’re so bloody jealous?  Arya had bedded the bastard of a king, and she doesn’t seem to care what that meant for her or her status or what the consequences for the realm would be.  No, he thinks.  It’s because I _know her_.  Know her better than anyone, family aside.  He _knows_ her because they are so very alike.  Jaime has the privilege of being her confidant, and that alone is enough to stand above the rest.  She is _his_ , now as he is hers.

 

The heat from the fire stirs him and he bolts up to the only window in the room and flings the shutters open.  A harsh, frozen wind greets him and he inhales.

 

“Why is the window open?”

 

Jaime turns to find Arya.

 

“You took Robert’s bastard to bed.”  He says sharply.

She lifts an eyebrow and studies him.  “So?”

 

“So?”  Jaime asks incredulously.  “You didn’t feel the need to enlighten me?”

 

Arya sighs and walks passed him to sit on the foot of her bed.  “Why would I?  What do you care?”  She pulls her boots off, one at a time without looking at him.

 

He’s mildly dazed at her nonchalant reaction. 

 

“He’s _legitimized_ now, my lady.  That could mean he could have a claim to the throne-and since you’re so keen on not giving a shit about it-he could claim you too.  Understand?”  Jaime is angry that she’s not taking this as seriously as she should.  She had no idea the tangled political web she may have been woven in.

 

Her slim fingers begin to unlace the outer layer of her clothes.  “Gendry already tried, and as I recall I said no.”  She stops unlacing and glances up at him.  “Why are you pitching such a fit about it anyway?”

 

Frustrated, Jaime glares at her.  “I’m not _pitching a fit_ , Arya-“

 

“You’re jealous,” she says, and stands up slowly.

 

Jaime looks as if he’s about to say more, but can’t.  He’s more jealous than angry and all the huffing about king’s bastards and the realm was just blustering.

 

“So what if I am?”  He throws at her.  “Shouldn’t I be?  You just bed whatever strapping lad saunters your way without a care in the world-what about me?”  He throws his hands up, before turning his back on her.  “Am I just some bed warmer for you until you decide otherwise?”

 

Arya feels as though she should be furious, but she isn’t.  Furious for having to answer for her actions to someone who was in no way involved with her until recently.  Yet, there’s hurt in his voice, a sort of pain that speaks of years of uncertainty and insecurity.

 

She gently grabs his arm, and he doesn’t resist being turned around to face her.

 

“It was the night before battle,” she explains, watching his face.  “I hadn’t ever…I’d never done it before.  So I decided to.”  It’s the simplest and most honest explanation.

 

Jaime’s face softens just so before asking, “Why him?”

 

Arya blinks.  “Sandor was too drunk by that time.”

For a moment, she thinks he believes her, so she offers a small smile and Jaime huffs a little, flinching at the prospect of Sandor Clegane fucking.

 

The fire behind them crackle and pops when a gust of wind shrieks through the window.  It ruffles Arya’s hair and sends strands into her face and catches her lip.  He lifts a cold finger and tucks it behind her ear, resting a hand on the back of her neck.  And as he looks at her, the resentment of her being with someone else fades as quickly as it had flared. 

 

She’s not Cersei.  She isn’t trying to pique his possessiveness, or manipulate him with his own emotional uncertainties.  Arya wasn’t goading him into doing her bidding by having a man and flaunting it in his face-she hadn’t said a word about it until Jaime said something.  Not as if she were hiding it, either.

 

Arya doesn’t move as Jaime’s hand pressed down on her.  She can see the emotions sweeping across his face almost as soon as the thoughts come to him.  She doesn’t know what they are-not really-but it’s something akin to the warmth she feels when she’s near him.

 

And then it strikes her.  Jaime sees her.  Really _sees_ her, there in front of him.  Like now he understands, truly and fully, who she is.  The sensation feels heavy in her feet and in the marrow of her bones.  Not like when Sansa saw her and had no idea what to do with her, or Bran, who looked through her, only caring about what the past shows him, or even Jon who saw her as the little girl who thought he hung the moon.

 

In this room, with Jaime Lannister, she feels human and whole, and recognized and _seen_ for the first time since her father sat her down and let her keep Needle.  This is why she was so lured to Jaime, why she sought him out.  Bran had known something, hadn’t he?  That’s why he said the things he did just a few moments ago in the dusty stacks of the library.

 

Arya swallows and raises her own hand to Jaime’s face, pulling him down as she strained on the balls of her feet, and kisses him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, it's not great, but I desperately needed to keep this going. Jaime's angsty and insecure and jealous and sort of a dick, but that's what we love about him, right?
> 
> Tune in next time for Sansa, Tyrion, Dany, and some dragon drama


End file.
